I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

I woke up to the fact that I've been compartmentalizing people.

Sectioning off different aspects of their personality and treating them like strangers.

As if they aren't just one and the same.

It's gotten me in trouble to fall in love with
The good you's and developing too much leniency for the bad you's.

Almost ignoring the bad altogether.

But sometimes we have to put it altogether to accurately make an assessment on someone's character and if we really love them,
And even if you really love them,
Is it safe for you to love them?

I can't hide from the whole anymore.

Its gotta be all or nothing.

I tried to love you with everything I had.
My love stirred up the darkness,
Shined a light and
Woke up your demons..
They didn't want love from me..
And one day I realized
Its because they wanted love
From you.

~
Bergamot morning

the astronauts are sleeping

and she dreams like a mannequin

ceiling stars abound

like hummingbirds in celestial flight

about the nectar of

young bodies, young machines

we drew a map together

from burst to bloom

from fever to neckline

from scale to mirror

pretty scar, a thing of awe

when the curious girl

realized she was under glass

raining in time lapse

she traversed me ad rem

with might and main

I didn't have the heart

to wake us from

her brainchild's motif
~

It comes from talking too fast.
Words from thought spill through
me.  I am unadorned with
punctuation.  I write in long
lines of ideas switching from
one to another like trestles.

Some thoughts get stuck or are
trapped under wheels. They rub
me clumsily.

I speak only English in a stomach
churning speed.  To tell you how
beautiful you are takes pages and
curls of rushing lines.

I am a jumble of ideas out loud.
A scorch of syllables.  I digress
of course.  I am a stumble of
sounds, a cataract of meanings.

Listen to the scrape of pen, the
words enlighten,emerge, into
conversation.


Caroline Shank
6.8.2023

I'm just an artist
There's nothing I can paint
That will staunch the bleeding of children
Running in the hallways
Terror streaking across their faces
Dripping sweat and tears dry
The after math is a class on
Thoughts and prayers.

I'm only an artist
There's nothing I can sing
That will stop them from drilling
Miles and miles deep the chemicals leak
Water isn't what it used to be
But gas ain't cheap, and
Neither is that mansion your
Representation bought
Across the street

I'm a humble artist
There's nothing I can write
That will regrow the forests that burn
I need the paper to wipe
And the ash fills my lungs
So I exhale my feelings onto
Blank white sheets hoping
To make a difference.